Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Thirty-One

Jerome washed and scrubbed
his hands with the lavender scented soap in an effort to remove the
graphite and oil paint from the pores of his skin, remnant evidence
of an afternoon's preliminary studies of Lucrezia.

She had suggested, after he
had touched her hand to arrange her fingers as they were in the
original painting, that he stay for dinner and the night, and
continue his efforts on the morrow. Her husband, she had said, would
like to meet him. Since there was nothing to draw him back to his
lonely apartment, Jerome had accepted. She was pleased with his
efforts and his skill, and had left him to clean his brushes while
Thaddeus awaited to escort him to his room. He had led Jerome along a
hallway and through a heavy door into what seemed a completely
different house, a much older structure with a wide corridor, high
ceilings, ornate moldings, old-fashioned hot-water radiators, and
rich oak, or possibly mahogany woodwork; nineteenth century oil
paintings and antique tapestries adorned the walls, and upon the
ornately carved hall tables, bronzes, alabaster lamps, and porcelain
urns; the old wood floors were laid with richly coloured oriental
carpets which had made their passage a silent one. They had come to a
large door with a sign above, The Tapestry Room. Thaddeus had
opened the door to reveal a large room with a heavy-limbed
four-poster, an elaborately carved stone fireplace and richly
coloured tapestries on the walls, hunting scenes for the most part.
Sleeping garments and a robe were laid upon the black and gold
jacquard bed cloth.

Jerome looked into the
mirror catching sight of the darkness beneath his eyes. He could use
a good sleep in a sumptuous bed. The old-fashioned tub with porcelain
fixtures reflected in the mirror, made him think a hot bath after
dinner would be a warranted treat. As he dried his hands, he heard a
loud distant noise, and then a tapping. He leaned his head
into the bedroom to hear if it was the door, but saw a shadow at the
triple arched window and noticed a dark bird pecking at the glass,
wings flapping. It was gone by the time he reached the window
sill, but it had left a black feather on the outside ledge, a feather enticingly out of reach, the lower sections of the windows having been sealed. As the fog descended like a veil, he looked upon the formal garden laid out before him, a fountain in the middle, and
tall hedges in the distance in what appeared to be a maze structure. Classical and Gothic juxtaposed.

Fatigue from his
concentrated exertion lured him to the bed where he lay down trying to suppress a brief memory of the movie The Shining, and hoping a light rest before supper would be restorative. Thaddeus said he
would come to find him in an hour. There was a large
dresser and a desk in the room but not a clock radio or timepiece in
sight. He would have to rely on his internal sense of time, a sense
though, he felt, had withered with modern conveniences and the
scientific structures of time. Perhaps a bird would wake him. He
closed his eyes and breathing deeply, fell into a light doze.

He stood holding a coffee
in his left hand, his purple SUV beside him. It was a large room with
enormous colourful abstract paintings on the wall. Seeing the crowd
moving towards the shadows to his left, he joined them and soon found
himself walking beside the yellow line on a Metro platform. Jostled,
trying to keep his coffee from spilling, and trying to avoid falling
onto the tracks, he managed to shoulder his way out of the stream and
finding a green door, opened it and began to scale a staircase. The
ceiling, however, seemed to descend as he ascended forcing him to
crouch. Two workmen in jumpsuits murmured to each other as they sat
on the stairs eating sandwiches oblivious to his rising concern, and
his feelings of being lost. Large painted pipes and valves forced him
to contort his body to make his way forward. Claustrophobia began to
overtake him. He left the coffee behind and crawled forward on his
belly towards what he felt to be a door. Pushing it open, he raised
himself to find the same room, his purple SUV in the distance, the
modern art, the crowds. A tall man who he felt to be his Father
looked at him, then got in the SUV and drove away. He was running
after it, helplessly running.

Jerome
awoke, his head between the large pillows, the bedspread disturbed as
if he had been thrashing. The dream lingered, for a brief moment,
fragments of images, shards of reflections and senses falling away
into that dark realm of the mind where memory and fantasy, the
abstract and the real continue to create seemingly haphazard alternative narratives of
life experience. Purple SUV, Metro platform, staircase,
Father. And they were gone. The
scenario as evanescent as the smoke from a cigarette.

He slid
off the bed and went to the desk. He felt he couldn't have slept
long. Ten minutes at the most. Looking into the drawers, he
discovered pens, a pair of scissors, and three identical unused
leather bound journals. Sitting at the desk, he opened one of the
journals, the cream paper heavy and textured, fresh and demanding. To
make the first mark on such a fine object filled him with a sense of
responsibility, so he took up the fountain pen, turned to the last
page of the journal and tested it with a few flourishes and strokes.
Pleased with its weight and feel, he returned to the first page and
decided to capture the moment.

Tuesday, October 23rd.

I feel I should write of
my experiences. A record. A testament. Or, at least, mere evidence
of this strange day. Something to leave behind or carry with me in
case of . . the unforeseen.

It is now late afternoon
and I feel that my initial doubts and concerns with this portrait
commission have diminished. I was at first startled by my escorts,
Tad and Barry, or Thaddeus and Bartholomew, twins of a certain
physical size and outward demeanour, but Thaddeus seems to carry
himself as a facade, his inner nature being rather soft and non
threatening. His brother, however, is an unknown factor still.

I don't know where I was
brought. The dark limo-like vehicle had tinted glass, and I fell
asleep as well. Heated seats and plush leather so far away from my
little hard vinyl seated Deux Chevaux. I do know we are in the
country forty or so minutes from Montreal. Whether to the North, or
to the Eastern Townships, I cannot tell. It is, however, a very
wealthy estate. The subject of the portrait, who I am to call
Lucrezia,is an attractive redhead a few years older than myself,
intelligent and cultured. Her presentation to me was one of
simplicity and openness. I fear I am drawn to her. Unintended pun—the
pen avails itself of such linguistic devices, unlike the brush. When
I touched her hand to model the fingers, there was a moment of
intense feeling, but she overcame it quickly and talked of how her
husband wanted to meet me, and that I should stay for dinner and
overnight.

Though my worries over
this commission have diminished, her husband is still an unknown
shadow who now garnishes my remnant anxiety. I try to imagine what
kind of man 'Lucrezia' is married to: Stereotypically older or
avant-gardely younger? Self-manifested wealth or inherited? Overweight
or fit? Tall or short? My expectations are open. I only hope he is
not . . dangerous.

Lucrezia's eyes revealed
much experience of life. I sensed she was mature, grounded, natural.
She was barefoot. A white cotton robe her only adornment. Not even a
ring. She shed everything for her pose. But we have many skins us
humans. My sketches and preliminary daubs went well. Her face does
suit the dress and the setting of the original. That can be a worry.
Sometimes a modern face is out of place. That last line sounds like a
lyric from a fifties song. 'Sometimes a modern face is out of place,
but not in my heart tonight. . . .' I'm becoming silly with hunger.

My room is the Tapestry
Room and feels much like an old-world stately home. The hunting scenes
depicted in the tapestries seem historical or mythological in nature,
the colours used are very warm and make the large room feel intimate.
I imagine that a fire in the grate would add to the intimacy as its
muted light flickers upon the colourful threads and weaves. I just
looked more intensely at the one behind the bed. A tall ship in full
sail, a lamp lit near its prow. A galleon of some kind, something
like a ship from the time of Sir Walter Ralegh and his kith. It is
quite different from the hunting scenes, in colouration—blues and
greys—as well as subject. No figures, just a portion of the ship
and in the foreground, the white crested waves and swampy land. Seems
modern as well as old.

I just heard a knock on
the door. Time must have flown. Thaddeus just called my name saying
he'll be in the corridor waiting to show me down to dinner. I wish
myself luck....

*

It was with a sense of relief that
Amelia and Edward looked upon Hugh and George greeting each other for
the first time. The dogs made a number of small circles around each
other, tails wagging and mouths open with curiosity, sniffing,
smiling, creating a familiarity of sorts. They were an odd pair. To
Edward, Amelia's miniature dachshund and his Airedale brought to mind
various odd couples, Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Sidney
James and Kenneth Williams, while for Amelia, she thought of Bouvard
and Pécuchet, Holmes and Watson, and Vladimir and Estragon. But such
frames of reference quickly evaporated when George spread his front
arms down in a pose of what seemed to be an offer of play, and Hugh
hopped about in the grass following him around in the backyard. A
success. They retreated to the patio and its comfortable chairs.

Amelia had not revealed her reason for
bringing Hugh up to the house, only saying she was out with him—which
she was—and since she was so close, she thought she would pop in
and say hi. Edward was pleased with the impromptu visit and the
resulting vigour that George was exhibiting.

“It's good to see George being more
lively,” Edward said. “I fear I don't stimulate or offer him much
in the way of exercise these days.”

“I'll try and bring Hugh up more
often now that I know they get along.”

They watched the dogs cavorting, and
then laughed lightly as George rolled over in the grass before
resting, while Hugh, now being eye to eye, nose to nose, stood before
him as if in conversation.

“I say, this is quite a backyard,”
Hugh said.

“Hmm, yes, but I don't use it much,”
George said looking about. “I used to do the old run and fetch a
stick or ball, but it's been a while. I sort of miss that.”

“Yes, yes, I do that from time to
time.”

“Have you ever jumped for frisbees?”
George asked looking at Hugh's short legs.

“Frisbees?” Hugh said. “No, no, I
can't say I have.”

“Not my thing either Hugh. Hard on the
teeth I bet.”

“And the nose too if you miss it,” Hugh offered. “I say, is there a cat about?” he said
sniffing the air.

“Good nose Hugh. Yes, but I don't
worry myself about it. A stray. They come and go.” George looked at
the house and Edward and Amelia talking together. “It must be a
hard life, without a home.”

“True enough. True enough.” Hugh
was impressed with George's magnanimous comment. And yet, he wondered
if George had ever been scratched by a cat. “I say, there is an
abundance of scents around here. Fox, skunk, raccoon, squirrel,
rabbit, and even, yes,” he sniffed more profoundly, “yes, a hint
of groundhog."

Chumley's Rest

On Books

Henry James Quotes

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy. Consistency was in itself distinction, and what was talent but the art of being completely whatever it was that one happened to be? One's things were characteristic or were nothing.

-The Next Time (Story originally published in The Yellow Book; issued in his collection Embarrassments, 1896.)

"We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything that anyone tells you about anyone else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." (R. Touchett)